


Jade Sea Bears

by ladymelodrama, salzrand



Series: Jade Sea Scrolls [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: + kids, ;), Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, Jade Sea verse, Mama Bear now too, Papa Bear - Freeform, Random Fluff, the fluff that is too fluffy for the main fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-01-29 17:30:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21413950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymelodrama/pseuds/ladymelodrama, https://archiveofourown.org/users/salzrand/pseuds/salzrand
Summary: Jorleesi fluff. Papa & Mama Bear and their cubs. That's literally all this is. Jade Sea universe. Random slice of life moments.With illustrations by salzrand <3
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Jade Sea Scrolls [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592998
Comments: 222
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There may be a day when I don't write fluff. But it is not this day ;) Set somewhere after they return from Westeros but before Daenielle is born.
> 
> P.S. Happy belated birthday, salzrand <3 <3 <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and p.s. I have to add in this _gorgeous_ salzrand illustration as cover art - even if I haven't written a drabble to accompany it yet (it _will_ happen) because UMMMMMM JUST LOOK AT IT...
> 
>   

> 
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

“Papa?” Aemon began half of his questions this way. The other half typically started with “Mama” or “Jeorgianna.”

“What is it, Aemon?” Jorah wondered, with infinite patience. He was currently perched on the third step of a ladder that he’d propped against the outside wall of the white-washed villa. He had a hammer in one hand and a few iron nails in the other. The shutters on the south side bedroom window were coming loose, thanks to a thunderstorm that had blown inland off the sea the night before, scattering lemon tree leaves in the front garden and rattling anything that wasn’t tied down.

“Where do dragons come from?” the little boy asked, curious. He was on the stone terrace below, standing at the foot of the ladder, bathed in afternoon sunlight. His teddy bear was wrapped in both arms, as usual, and Aemon was peering up at his father with measured interest, watching him work.

“Old Valyria,” Jorah replied. He climbed another step on the ladder, bracing his hand against the white stones as he fiddled with the hinges. He added, “Hatched somewhere deep in the raging hot fires of the Fourteen Flames—so go the old tales.”

“I already told him that,” Jeorgianna mentioned evenly, her voice appearing suddenly, from inside the house. She appeared as well, poking her silver-blonde head out the open window just a foot or two above where her father was working. 

She set the book she had been reading face down on the windowsill, with its pages open and spine bent. She was on her knees, leaning on the sill beside her book, resting her chin on folded hands. She continued, with just a hint of exasperation. “He asked me the same thing this morning.”

“Well, I forgot,” Aemon shrugged innocently. 

Jorah chuckled, “After you ask a question, Aemon, you have to listen to the answer. You should try to retain it for more than half a day.”

“I did,” Aemon insisted, hugging his bear closer. “Jeorgianna just talked too fast.”

“No, I didn’t,” Jeorgianna shook her head. “I told you dragons come from Old Valyria.”

“But Mama comes from Old Valyria,” Aemon reasoned, betraying that he hadn’t so much forgotten his sister’s answer as he didn’t quite understand it.

“No, she has the _blood_ of Old Valyria,” Jorah explained the difference, as he tested the shutter hinge again. “It means her family lived in Valyria a long time ago.”

“How long ago?”

“A long, _long_ time.”

“As long as Grandfather has been alive?”

“A little longer.”

“Do _I_ have the blood of Old Valyria?” Aemon wondered.

“Yes, you and Jeorgianna both. And the new baby, when he or she arrives, will be the same,” Jorah replied. “Just like your mother.”

“And blood of the First Men like you?” Jeorgianna jumped in quickly, sitting up a little straighter on her knees, looking to her father immediately. She was confident in the answer but still wanted reassurance.

“Aye,” he smiled up at her warmly, the lines around his eyes and mouth creasing as he confirmed, “You’re blood of the First Men too.”

Aemon mulled over the information for a little while, swaying on the terrace, his chin sinking deeper into the top of his stuffed bear’s head as he sunk deeper into thought, trying to piece it all together. 

In the meantime, Jorah held a couple of the nails between his teeth as he hammered at the lower side of the shutter, bolstering its supports against the window frame. Further above, Jeorgianna watched as a little beetle with blue-speckled wings crawled across the windowsill and up the spine of her book. 

The sea breeze, much calmer this evening than last, and Jorah’s steady hammering of nails was all that broke the stillness of late afternoon. Until Aemon spoke again, only a few minutes later…

“Fine,” the little boy declared, having decided to accept his father and sister’s answers, at last. He moved on to his next question seamlessly, “Then where do babies come from?”

Unprepared, Jorah almost missed a step on the ladder as he descended. He paused mid-step, looking up and meeting Jeorgianna’s gaze briefly. His daughter’s eyes had gone as wide as his and she was suddenly alert, raising her head off her hands in a rush. She gave her father a parting, apologetic half-grin as she quickly ducked back into the villa, leaving Jorah to handle _that_ particular question on his own.

“Umm…”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fluff. I've decided this fic will just be random drabbles/scenes with no plot or point whatsoever...
> 
> ...except maybe to reveal the name of Daenielle's dragon? Stay tuned for the others ;)
> 
> <3

Jorah felt a sudden weight, as something heavy and rectangular was laid on his knees and then somewhat clumsily pushed further into his lap. 

He was sitting in a straight-backed chair, at a pine table in the alcove off the villa’s summer kitchen, writing a note of order for one of the ships that would be traveling to Port Yhos in a day or so. The ship would carry fish to market, and return with supplies, spices and whatever exotic wares the western Qarthians might currently be inclined to sell. 

Jorah paused in his missive and looked down at his left side, recognizing the red-blonde of Daenielle’s head immediately, with that distinctive silver streak that she’d had since she was born. He watched her tiny fingers as they slipped off the wide, leather bindings of the book she transferred to his keeping, pushing it forward just a little more before stepping back, with an expectant look on her little face.

The book was old and tattered, one of the ones he’d brought from Bear Island to Westeros all those many years ago. The same ones he gave Daenerys as a wedding gift when she married Khal Drogo by the sea at Pentos. 

The very same ones she gave him back on their own wedding day, only a couple years later, with a sweet smile and a few sweeter words—

_These are ours now, Jorah. Not mine, not yours. Ours._

Those books were the first thing they shared, but not the last. 

_No, certainly not_, he thought, looking down at their youngest daughter with a hint of amusement in his gruff expression, waiting for the little girl to speak. 

“This one, Papa,” Daenielle declared, _very_ seriously. She rested both her hands on his thigh lightly, waiting for his answer. 

“This one?” Jorah pushed his chair out just a little, hearing it scrape against the stones of the airy room, with all its half-opened windows and mild breezes, examining her choice and reading the title while holding back a bemused grin. 

Daenielle was only four years old. “Lauded Tales of Valyrians, Andals and the First Men” was perhaps a _little_ beyond her comprehension. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Daenielle nodded firmly. She placed her hand on the faded cover of the book, right next to his large one.

When she asked him if he’d read her a story, he told her to go to the library and pick one out. He expected her to bring back one of the smaller, better-bound volumes of Essosi fairy tales or one of the books on dragons that Jeorgianna and Aemon had found by scouring the stall of every bookseller or paper merchant that passed through the village.

But Daenielle didn’t need a book to tell her about dragons. Not when three young dragons lived and breathed only half a mile from her home, growing stronger and larger by the year, hidden away from prying eyes on the high cliffs of the Jade Sea. 

To a little girl who knew fairy tales as flesh-and-blood reality, an old, dusty history book was just as good as any other story, he supposed.

“All right, then,” he murmured his assent, setting his quill and ink aside and placing the old book on the table top. He then reached down and lifted Daenielle onto his lap, balancing the little girl on his knee, his forearm looped around her to hold her in place.

He opened the tattered front cover, careful of the fraying edges, and flipped a few pages forward, trying to find a story that might appeal to her.

“After setting off from Dragonstone, Aegon Targaryen landed upon the eastern shore of Westeros, at the mouth of Blackwater Rush, astride his great dragon, Balerion, called by many, the Black Dread…”

Before Jorah could continue, Daenielle turned in his lap, reaching far above her head to put her little hand flat over his mouth, stifling his next words. 

“No, Papa,” she shook her head. “No more dragons.”

“You don’t like dragons?” he asked, with a surprised chuckle, not believing her. _All_ his children liked dragons. 

“I like them,” she mentioned, with a little sigh that spoke of a recently acquired caveat, adding, “Sometimes.” 

“Sometimes?” Jorah mused, perplexed, wondering what this was all about.

From the kitchen came his answer…

“Oh, Seadancer spit water at her while we were down at the cliffs this morning,” Daenerys’s voice appeared before she did. 

When she came into view—blue dress, soft braids—she was drying her hands with a damp rag. She paused under the white arch of the alcove with a little smile, giving her daughter a knowing look, “He was just playing, Daenielle. And you’ll forgive him. You _always_ do.”

“Maybe I won’t this time,” the little girl replied, somewhat tersely. She and her green dragon were not on the best of terms presently.

Daenerys took a step forward and touched Daenielle’s chin with her thumb and first finger. Daenerys grinned at her youngest child’s unusually solemn manner, saying simply, “Yes, you will.” 

She bent slightly and pressed a kiss to the few silver strands of Daenielle’s hair, while one hand softly trailed along Jorah’s shoulders as she straightened up again. 

As she walked back into the kitchen, she cast a glance at the half-completed list beside the book, speaking to Jorah now, “Don’t forget to ask them to bring back cinnamon from the spice merchants. I asked Rasha if she had any, and she said she’s been out for months.”

“That’s because Rasha uses too much cinnamon in her pies,” Jorah muttered evenly, but lifted the quill and added the item to his list. 

“I’ll be sure to tell her you think so,” Daenerys knew her husband meant no offence to their neighbor. A man from Bear Island would never be able to shake habits of sparse living, no matter how long he lived along the temperate coast of the Jade Sea. 

But she blew him a teasing kiss just the same, clucking her tongue once, before disappearing back into the other room again.

In the meantime, Daenielle had been flipping pages on the old book slowly, carefully, stopping on ink-drawn illustrations that caught her fancy. She reached a page with a mermaid holding a trident and a conch shell, the sea-maid’s hair tied up with red weeds and oyster pearls. 

“This one, Papa,” Daenielle decided, snuggling back against her father with a sigh, but this time a happy one, ready for her promised story.

His voice took on a steady, almost musical cadence, as he read, “Once, a long time ago, on the edge of a shimmering blue sea…”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be back with a "Storms" update next week. But sorry, this fluff inspired by salzrand's latest creation (askdflkaladkjdajhaldkajdklakdjdak... #keyboardsmashtoinfinity) cannot wait <3
> 
> #FluffySunday

_A few years ago..._

“I heard you praying in the night, while she was being born,” Daenerys murmured to the man sitting on the bed beside her. She spoke to Jorah in a soft, tender voice, while gently shifting the bundle in her arms, careful not to wake the sleeping baby.

The midwife had left shortly after dawn’s first blush, a _long_ night’s work finished to the satisfaction of everyone in that bedchamber. The villa was now bathed in golden hues, as the sun crawled up from its seabed perch, spilling over the villages lining the blue-green coast. Wisps of smoke scented the air, as Jorah had recently blown out the candles that had seen them through the night. 

The newborn was wrapped in a cocoon of swaddling clothes, cleaned and nursed. She took tiny breaths, her little chest rising and falling steadily. This was in stark contrast to the red-faced squalling that she’d entered the world with, barely an hour before.

One thing was certain. Their daughter had a powerful set of lungs.

_Our daughter._ Daenerys found herself filled with lightness and warmth at the very idea. The grim heaviness of the night before was already fading—the murky glow of candles, a thick night air filled up by her own groans and cries. Oh she tried to keep quiet so as not to worry Jorah, but it couldn't be helped—the twisting weight, the midwife’s calming voice, firm hands on her belly, Jorah’s prayers, a fierce pain followed by sudden release. With only Jeorgianna left behind. 

Daenerys shifted again, her bare foot escaping the sheets, brushing against only the coolness of the morning air. She snuggled closer to Jorah, as his arm came up and settled around her shoulder, encircling them both. Mother and daughter.

_I’m a mother. This is my daughter._ Daenerys thought, marveling.

“Aye, I was praying,” he pressed a kiss against her forehead, before letting his gaze drop to the child now cradled between them. His prayers had been desperate things—promises, regrets, vows, bargains. 

_Don’t take her from me. Please…_

“I thought you didn’t believe in the gods?” she mused. With Jeorgianna balanced in the crook of one arm, she brought her other hand from under the bundle, to brush at a lock of Jorah’s hair. He looked tired, weary and worn out. They should both get some sleep. Soon.

_I believe what my eyes and ears report, Khaleesi._ She remembered his words clearly, spoken in that market in Vaes Dothrak. But it seemed as if he spoke them nearly a lifetime ago now.

“I didn’t,” he admitted freely, with his blue eyes fixed on the baby—a baby whose eyes were the same shade and color as his own. He was fully captivated by the little thing, _adored_ her even though he’d only just met her. Daenerys saw love written up and down his dear features. She’d seen that same look turned on her many times. But never to anyone else. She was not unhappy to see it turned on their child. He added, “But I’ve been a fool about so many things.”

“Not about this.”

“No, _never_ about this.”

They passed the next few minutes in shared silence, watching their child do nothing but sleep, listening to her easy breathing. Outside, the faint morning light was waking the gardens, with flower petals unfurling and songbirds trilling on sweet melodies. 

“You were worried it would be like with Rhaego,” Daenerys guessed, her hand capturing his strong chin and forcing him to look at her. Just for a moment. The hooded look in his eyes confirmed her guess, though she hardly needed to see it. 

They both remembered that terrible night in the desert. Her cries, salt tears falling on the red sand, the black-haired baby’s grave silence and Jorah’s arms around her, rocking her back and forth very gently. Jorah just nodded, not wanting to bring sadness to a moment so filled with joy. But she bent her head towards him, gently nuzzling the crook of his neck as she told him, “So was I.”

_Rhaego, my son, you nearly broke me. But your sister and her father have made me whole once more._

“Look at her, Jorah. She’s beautiful,” Daenerys used her thumb to gently take the baby’s tiny hand, lingering over fingernails the size of dust specks. “She’s perfect.”

“Just like her mother,” Jorah’s lips lingered at her temple.

“When you first saw me that day in Pentos, did you ever imagine this story for us?” she wondered, suddenly curious. 

She remembered everything about that day, as she thought about it often. The books he brought with him, the sea breeze catching at the edges of his cloak. A knight from the country of her birth. If she’d known she’d someday bear that man a child, she would have risen from her seat by the Khal and jumped into Jorah’s arms, burying her head against his shoulder, telling him to take her away from that false wedding and her brother’s doomed schemes. 

To run away with her. The sooner the better.

“Not in a thousand years, Daenerys,” Jorah whispered at her ear, leaving soft kisses behind. He said, with too much sincerity, “Not in a _hundred_ thousand years.”

Something in his voice betrayed that he _still_ didn’t believe it. Even as the truth unfolded before his eyes. Even with his daughter’s first cries lingering in their ears, and her scant weight shared between them. Daenerys knew Jorah didn’t think he deserved this. Any of it. To be with her. To become a father.

He was right. He _was_ a foolish bear sometimes. 

“I am _yours_ and you are _mine_,” she insisted, grasping the front of his shirt to pull him even closer, bringing his forehead down to rest against hers. This wouldn’t be the first time she’d remind him, nor the last. But she’d remind him forever, if that’s what it took. She promised, “Until my last day.”

Jorah couldn’t argue with her. Not on this morning.

“And she is _ours_,” he said, his dulcet tones filled with abject wonder.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teddy bears, peaches and fluff <3
> 
> This is what happens when random pretty arts by salzrand hit my inbox and suddenly I have an onslaught of FEEEEEEELINGS 🐻🐻🐻

In one of the neighboring harbors to the east, there was a merchant who sold the freshest and sweetest peaches to be found on the far side of the Jade Gates. Perhaps in all of Essos. The fruit came from a secluded grove further inland, grown on a sunny hillside crowned with wildflowers and watered by the snow melt of nearby mountains. The fuzzy skin of each fruit was pink-blush and nearly unblemished, the taste of the pulp was an intoxicating blend of winter tart and summer sweet. 

Daenerys said she’d like to visit that peach grove someday, as she was entirely sure the roots of those trees must be sown with some sort of divine magic. And every time Jorah’s sea voyages took him near enough that little harbor, whether he was seeking out trade or fish, he’d honor her long-standing request to pick up half a dozen.

As he counted out a few silver coins to pay the fruit merchant, Jorah’s eyes fell on a wooden crate of toys at the foot of the stand. They were odds and ends, the usual spinning tops and carved animals, wooden dice and cloth dolls without faces. But there was one item that caught Jorah’s eye immediately. Enough that he stopped counting out coins, reaching down to retrieve it from the others

“You’ve got a child at home, eh, sailor?” the merchant asked, seaweed-green irises twinkling under bushy eyebrows, hoping to add to his sale tally for the day.

“Two,” Jorah replied without looking away from the stuffed bear in his weather-rough hands, his thumb running over the little thing’s fluffy round face and stitched smile. It was an unusual toy to find here, as bears were scarce along the coast. Perhaps a few growled away in the mountain caves and cascading streams of Yi Ti’s high peaks, but not down here by the sea. 

“Any toy bought at this stall will bring a smile to young faces and good fortune besides,” the man promised. “It is known.”

“Aye,” Jorah muttered, not putting much stock in the merchant’s gilded words. 

He wasn’t listening. Not really. His mind was miles, and many years away, remembering another stuffed bear, one with green marble eyes and a black shaggy face, that once lived in the halls of Bear Island, propped up in a window seat in the Great Hall or left by the hearth in his father’s library. 

He was curious, briefly wondering if Maege’s younger daughters had ever played with the old thing or if it was eventually tucked away in a cedar chest somewhere in the upper halls, buried under old linens and moth-eaten furs.

_You gave up your right to know the answer to that question a long time ago..._

“I’ll take this too,” he decided, impulsively, setting the bear on the man’s wooden cart before counting out another coin from his purse. The merchant was only too happy to oblige and bowed low with gratitude, one hand pressed against his breastbone, the other outstretched to receive his compensation.

* * *

When he returned home that night, it was Daenerys—digging through his satchel for her peaches—who pulled the stuffed bear from his sea bag. She was surprised at the discovery and it showed on her face, as a stuffed animal was the _last_ thing she might have guessed to find there. But the bear’s stitched smile was soon answered in her own expression, her fingertips running over the furry brown fabric and heavy stitching that formed his button-like nose.

“Is this for me?” she teased, casting a quick glance Jorah’s way, as he hung his outercoat on a hook by the back door. She turned the little bear’s neck slightly at the same time, cocking her eyebrow up just a hair, so he knew he was found out. 

There was an inherent bashfulness in his movements whenever he indulged in something too sentimental, the way his eyes were drawn down to his feet, his wandering hand rising to the back of his neck, his tongue failing to manage more than a mumbled reply.

_Oh, the dour Mormonts…_ Daenerys thought, amused as always. But a tender ache stirred within her breast as she watched her own bear second-guessing himself, and this chased away the tease. She reassured him, “Aemon will _love_ it, Jorah.”

He nodded, his hesitation only flickering and short-lived. He came around behind her, so close that she could feel his breath at her temple. He reached into the satchel and came out with a blush-colored fruit, round and firm and nearly swallowed up in his large, bear-paw hands. “Fair trade, _Khaleesi_?”

“Mmm, yes,” she agreed, handing over the stuffed bear for the delicate fruit without argument. She brought the peach near her face with both hands, breathing in its fresh scent as the fuzz tickled her nose. At the same time, she felt Jorah’s fingers trail the drape of her hair to one side, before he ducked down to press a warm, gentle kiss to the crook of her neck. Her senses approved of the combination. 

“Are the children asleep?” he wondered softly, while trailing a second kiss up her collar bone.

“They should be,” Daenerys answered, grinning as the whiskers of his beard brushed over her bare skin. Her tone reclaimed some of the tease from before as she added, “But your son keeps his own hours.”

“My son now? I thought we agreed Aemon was _your_ fault.”

“That never happened…”

“I’ll go and find out,” he replied, one hand dropping to cup her waist gently, following the curves before sliding away. He left the kitchen with the stuffed bear in his hand, turning once to remind her, “Don’t eat the peaches without me.”

* * *

At times, Aemon could be a fussy baby. More so than Jeorgianna had ever been. When they first moved his crib from their bedroom into the nursery, there were nights he cried almost straight through, with fat, sad tears rolling down his chubby cheeks. 

Jorah and Daenerys took turns soothing his cries, pacing the nursery floor at midnight and humming low songs to the baby until he fell back asleep. There were a couple of northern sea shanties that Jorah found worked best and his voice would rumble quietly on the lyrics of simple melodies, feeling his son’s tight-fisted grip relax after a single verse, his curly-haired head falling against Jorah’s chest with a soft thump.

But those nights grew fewer in number, as the baby finally seemed settled to the nursery. 

Across the hall, Jeorgianna no longer slept with a pillow crammed over her head to shut out her baby brother’s cries. Jorah confirmed this for himself, slipping into his daughter’s room on his way by and finding her fast asleep, despite the sunset glow still lighting up the upper halls and chambers of the villa. 

He ghosted a kiss against Jeorgianna’s silver-blonde hair, careful not to wake her.

_I owe you a gift too, lass…_ he thought as he straightened up. He’d visit the bookseller in the village tomorrow and see if there were any new fairy tales that might catch her eye. Mermaids in the sea, dryads in the forest, and dragons in the air. 

“Gah!” As expected, Aemon wasn’t sleeping. Not yet. He was sitting up against the side of his crib and gurgled happily as soon as he caught sight of his father. 

“Not asleep, hmm?” Jorah murmured to the baby, shaking his head. “Your mother will be so disappointed, Aemon.” 

The baby bounced and reached up stubby hands as Jorah plucked him from the crib, balancing the little boy in one arm before bringing the stuffed bear around to plant a kiss against Aemon’s cheek. He stole it back almost immediately, hiding the bear from sight once more. Aemon’s head went side to side looking for the assailant. Jorah gave a mock gasp. “Ah. What was that?”

Aemon’s blue eyes sparkled and his toothless grin went wider, as his hands reached for something he couldn’t see. He twisted in Jorah’s arms, placing both palms flat on Jorah’s broad chest, stretching up to find the missing toy. Jorah smirked, and brought the bear around again, this time to plant a furry kiss against Aemon’s opposite cheek. 

Aemon jumped and smiled again. But the bear was swiftly out of sight, behind Jorah’s back.

“Dey!” Aemon insisted, and Jorah finally relented, as he settled on the nursery floor, with Aemon in his lap, holding the baby in place with a strong forearm. This time the bear stayed within sight. And Aemon suddenly had eyes for nothing but that stuffed animal.

Both his tiny hands reached out to squeeze the bear’s velvety nose, its soft belly, its furry ears. With no further tease, Jorah handed the bear over into his little boy’s begging hands.

“It’s a bear, Aemon,” Jorah told him. “Like the ones that live on the island where I was born. And my father. And his father before him…”

Aemon babbled a reply with cooing sounds and held the stuffed bear aloft, looping his hands under the bear’s arms, completely enamored by the silly thing. 

Jorah smiled, the lines around his eyes and mouth crinkling as he watched his son’s face light up like the sky at sunrise.

* * *

“Well, he’s asleep now,” Jorah mentioned, as he reentered the kitchen. “_With_ the bear in his arms so I daresay he likes it well enough—Daenerys?”

Jorah stopped short, his long strides slowing, as Daenerys was turning away from him too quickly and with the telling hint of a guilty look on her face. At least, what he could see before she turned away. There was a paring knife on the table beside her and her palm was flat over what looked suspiciously like a slice of pink-blush peach.

She recovered, turning back and feigning innocence. She hadn’t swallowed. But her lips were pressed together and she answered his comments with a couple short nods and noncommittal “hmm”-ing.

Jorah gave her a long look, while she tried not to swallow.

“I’ll take you to that peach grove tomorrow if you can say the word ‘seashells’ right now,” Jorah offered, his eyes narrowing with a little mischief of his own.

“Thee-thells…,” the chunks of peach rolling around her pretty mouth proved her downfall and she gave a little shriek-and-grin as she saw him dart forward, giving chase around the kitchen.

“You said you’d wait!” 

“I was hungry. And my gods, you were up there forever…”

“Blame _your_ son’s adorableness.”

“I blame any and all of the children’s adorableness on you.”

He'd caught her around the far side of the kitchen table, near a set of high, grey-painted cupboards, and held her fast, their mouths near enough to touch if he were only to drop his head an inch or she were to stretch up on her toes. 

She wriggled against his strong grasp, trying in vain to escape and falling into a fit of giggles as his hands crawled around the small of her back, looking for the hidden prize. But she was defiant, holding the last slice of that sweet peach in both hands behind her back, unwilling to give it up so easily.

With a sudden, unexpected rush of movement, she slipped one arm from his clutches, momentarily breaking free and quickly popping the slice of peach into her mouth. 

Half of it anyway, as the slice was too large to eat at once. 

Jorah took the opportunity to dip his head and take a bite out of the rest, taking his rightful share, while stealing a grinning, sticky kiss at the same time. Daenerys laughed, licking her peach-flavored lips and found her hands instinctively going up to frame the sides of his face, barely letting him chew and swallow before dragging him down for another kiss. 

The fruit was ripe and delicious, but filled with explosions of juice…it was soon in his beard, on her fingers, exchanged on their damp lips and dripping down their chins, making a glorious mess.

But they didn’t notice. Or, more likely, they didn’t care. 

For their kisses that night all tasted of peaches, and both Jorah and Daenerys were extremely partial to the flavor.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #HammockJorleesi
> 
> It's totally a thing ;)
> 
> ETA: Oh, and I should mention that this idea was born during a brainstorming/fangirling session with salzrand. You should just assume _everything_ in this fic is a result of soft-squad-collab brainstorming (usually in the form of random gifs) 😂
> 
> ETA Part II: Eeeeeeeeeeee! Scroll down for more #HammockJorleesi by salzrand :) :) :)  
  


“Jorah?” Daenerys was wandering deeper into her gardens, following grey, stone paths, passing beneath shaded trellises, all tangled by green ivy and blue and violet flowers. She skirted tiny water fountains and shallow pools adorned with floating lilies and lotus blossoms, following the ringing sound of a hammer and the telltale rustling of her favorite bear.

It was Jorah. Back from the docks early? He was standing beside a thick beech tree, anchoring a silver hook in the old bark, with a sling of cotton netting drawn out lengthwise at his feet. The sling was braided with smooth, silky ropes, with two long wooden bars attached at either end, where the ropes were drawn up to a single point and tied together. The sling was long enough to stretch to a second tree, a tall palm that grew only a few feet away from the beech.

There used to be hedges along this side of the garden and an old cedar tree that blocked any view of the cliff side and the sea below, keeping this particular spot secluded for a long time, hidden away as a secret place, known only to its gardener and the man she loved the most. 

But the old cedar had come down a few years back, and Daenerys decided to trim back some of the hedges, opening the plot up, as its view of the sea was now one of the best around the entire villa.

Daenerys still kept white and yellow daisies all around this part of the garden, in great numbers and carefully tended, as they were Jeorgianna’s favorite flower and…well, it seemed appropriate, even so many years later. 

She wondered if Jorah still remembered why she grew those daisies here, in this particular spot.

“You’re back early,” she mentioned, once she reached him. Her eyes flickered from her husband to the netting on the ground, bemused by the sudden, unexpected project. She asked, “What’s this?” 

“A hammock,” he replied, pulling the near arm of the thing tight and looping the long end of the rope around the trunk of that tree twice. With a sailor’s skill, he tied sturdy knots above the fastening. He explained, “Daenielle’s been asking me to string up one for ages, ever since I took her below deck on the galley and she saw how the sailors like to sleep.”

“She wants to be a sailor now?” Daenerys wondered, knowing that her youngest daughter changed her future ambitions often, and with great zeal. 

“Aye,” Jorah answered with an amused smile. “And a baker, and a healer, and a writer, and—as always, her grandfather.”

Daenerys grinned on the last choice. Daenielle spent enough time with Jeor Mormont that she could likely pass for the Old Bear already, in temperament, in manner…if only she were about three feet taller and her hair, a few shades whiter.

“Are the children still down at the beach with the dragons?” Daenerys asked, giving a cursory glance behind her, listening for their voices. But it was all songbird noise and cicadas, the buzz of a hummingbird and the soft whisper of salt breeze coming off the coast. The breeze kissed at her cheek now and again, playing with her hair in a way reminiscent of Jorah in the earliest hours of dawn.

“I haven’t seen them yet,” Jorah confirmed. “But Aemon told me they’d be back by supper.”

“And your father?”

“He’s swapping war stories with Isaak down at the harbor.”

Captain Isaak Maegis had a few stories. And Jeor Mormont had a few more. Isaak had traveled extensively around the coast of Sothoryos when he was a young man, even daring to venture into its tangled jungles and mysterious ruins once or twice. It was said he’d seen the very bottom of the world. Just as Jeor Mormont had seen the top of it. 

Both with glorious sights and terrible monsters, and stories that would fill a dozen volumes if they were all written down. 

Jorah moved around Daenerys, his hand skimming her waist as he passed. She grinned at the fleeting touch, as always, wishing he’d linger. But he was intent on finishing before the children returned, turning his attention to the palm tree side now. She stood nearby, in flickering shade and sunlight, watching him work, watching his strong hands, all those weathered lines and familiar movements she knew so well. 

He affixed the second hook and reached down to retrieve the hammock’s limp arm. He pulled the sling tight, around the trunk and through the hook, as the netting slipped off the ground to hover a few feet higher, suspended and swaying under his careful knot-tying.

Daenerys looked at the hanging bed with some suspicion, as it seemed such a flimsy thing. She’d seen this sort of contraption on ships but she wasn’t sure she trusted it. A mess of netting was all well and good for pulling fish out of the water but to rest in it? Still, curiosity crept over her as she watched the ropes continue to sway, gently, rhythmically…

“Come, try it out,” Jorah was pleased, recognizing the obvious interest in her eyes. 

“This thing?” she said, shaking her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Jorah smirked, “It’s not going to collapse under you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“Mmhmm…,” Daenerys answered, but remained unconvinced. 

“Besides...,” Jorah had set his tools aside, moving closer to her, speaking at her ear, while lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Even if it _does_ collapse…if I remember correctly, the grass here is the softest in all your gardens, _Khaleesi_.”

Her eyebrows rose just a little at his jaunty tone, a little further at the way his thumb slid over her cheek, as if brushing away a little speck of dirt, though she knew there was nothing there. His other hand wandered back to her waist, drawn by memory. She gave him a sly, sideways glance, answering his grin with her own. 

Of course he remembered. How could she think he would forget?

Still, she hesitated over the hammock. But Jorah was too proud of his work, and decided to make the decision for her. With a quick tug, he pulled them both down onto the cotton netting. Tumbling in, together. 

“Jorah!” Daenerys warned, far too late, bracing herself for the snap of rope and collapse under their combined weight, which she was sure would follow swiftly. But the fastenings held tight and the ropes stretched nicely, with the hammock shrugging off their weight with little trouble. 

Here they swung. Rocking back and forth like babes in a cradle, and in a soft, soothing manner that brought the wide smile back to Daenerys’s lips immediately. The sensation, strange but somehow expected too, was not at all unpleasant.

And soon, they were both stretched out, with their shoes kicked off to the grass below. Jorah folded one arm back behind his head, as Daenerys found a familiar resting place, curling beside her bear, stretching, reaching her hand across his broad chest.

Jorah chose the perfect spot. Just enough sun through the canopy of tree leaves above, cool shade alternating with warm rays, just enough ocean breeze coming off the sea below, to keep pesky insects away. 

And just enough kisses exchanged between them, as the hammock continued its gentle, lazy swing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus gif: Bear in a hammock 😂
> 
>   



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, what was I saying? Ohhhh right...#TheHairBraidingThatWasPromised <3
> 
> As an extra reward for graciously indulging my two weeks of Bashara feels in "Storms" (which you may or may not have signed up for lol), here - have some pure Jorleesi fluff.
> 
> Seriously. It's just fluff filling wrapped in two fluff cookies, courtesy of salzrand and her fluff-tastic sense of father/daughter F L U F F <3 <3 <3 Enjoy! Xo

The morning of Aemon’s birth, there was a soft rain shower that darkened the dawn, enough that Jorah neglected to mark the changing light, having lost track of time. He’d been at Daenerys’s side through much of the night and the hours had begun to bleed into one another. The child was taking its time arriving, seemingly hesitant to leave the warmth and safety of its mother’s womb.

Daenerys had hoped for a quick delivery this time, but she’d been at this since late the prior evening. Having borne one healthy child by Jorah already, however, seemed to give her the strength to get through the night. Pain and exhaustion carved up her features, as she grimaced through the many contractions seizing her body. But there was no fear there, just a mother’s fierce determination to bring her child into the world. 

The hours slogged on. But Bithia said it wouldn’t be long now. 

Her tag-along assistant, a young village girl training to act as a midwife, had gone downstairs for fresh linens and another basin of hot water. She returned while Bithia was helping Daenerys change positions, propping her up against the headboard, as the harder work was yet to come.

The village girl’s hands were full when she returned, and Jorah helped her with the steaming basin, leaving Daenerys’s side only in the capable care of Bithia. The young assistant looked up at Jorah, while speaking in low tones, as befitted the grim tension of a birthing chamber. She mentioned, plainly, “Your daughter is awake, Ser Jorah…”

_Where had the time gone?_

He cast a quick glance towards the seaside windows, noting that night had yet to leave them, but picking out the cinder silhouette of rain clouds beyond lacy valances. The sun would rise behind them, but it would rise soon, nonetheless. And Daenerys’s labored cries rose with it, growing louder as the pains came more frequently, building with piercing strength as the child’s entrance to the world drew closer. 

Jeorgianna must have woken to her mother’s cries. And if she saw a stranger in the house…

Indeed, the young midwife-in-training confirmed it, “I saw her in the hall, my lord, but she hid from me.”

“That’s it, Daenerys. Breathe through it,” Bithia’s calm voice filled the chamber. The healer’s voice carried a husky note, cultivated after years spent hovering over burnt incense and boiling pots of herbs. After helping Daenerys into a more comfortable position, she’d gone to check the baby’s progress, gently spreading Daenerys’s knees while reaching up to massage the woman’s distended belly at the same time. “Pant, girl. Breathe. Don’t push—we’re not quite there. But this will be over soon, I promise…”

Daenerys had reached for Jorah’s hand and was now gripping it tightly, as she rode through a wave of searing pain, hot tears coming to her tired eyes and falling down both sides of her already damp cheeks. But she didn’t cry out this time, keeping as silent as she was able, having heard the words of Bithia’s assistant even through the haze of that contraction. 

She hadn’t meant to wake Jeorgianna. She didn’t want Jeorgianna to be afraid.

As the contraction ebbed, so did her iron grip on Jorah’s hand, leaving behind pale, white fingermarks on his weather-worn skin. She caught her breath, looking up at her husband with plaintive eyes, “Go to her, Jorah. She’ll be frightened.”

The conflict in his grim features was palpable, “But you…”

“No, I’ll be all right,” Daenerys promised, breathing deeply, grateful for a moment of relief, no matter how fleeting. 

She laid her head back on the tower of pillows and closed her eyes briefly, to focus, gathering her strength for the next contraction, which she knew would follow in only a few minutes. They came on the heels of each other now. But before it came, she opened her eyes once more, telling him, “Bithia is here…and I’ll likely crush your hand if you stay.”

Bithia huffed a laugh from where she stood near the basin of water, amused—by the measure of truth in that statement, and by Daenerys’s ability to banter with her husband, even at a time like this. Having seen the force Daenerys used on Jorah’s hand, she agreed with her patient’s assessment. Bithia tipped her head, “She might do just that, my lord.”

And to reassure him further, Daenerys managed a very tired smile herself, eyes crinkling, even through glistening, weary tears. Her long hair was pulled to one side and tied hastily, her brow was soaked with sweat and her violet eyes were dark-rimmed from lack of sleep. She was less than an hour from bringing their second child into the world, but he would swear on the heads of the Seven that she was as beautiful in that moment as he’d ever seen her. 

But Jorah’s heart broke on her pain, as always—and more so because he knew his own, undeniable part in it. He knew why the gods gave the burden of childbirth to women—he was convinced no man could survive it, no matter how strong, no matter how steady. 

Still, it wasn’t fair. 

As much as they both wanted this child (fiercely, truly, _dearly_), he was tempted to wish away that rash, passionate night down on the beach nine months before, kissing her on the sea strand beneath a full moon…if only to save his sweet wife from these terrible tears and all this pain.

_You are a foolish, foolish man, Jorah Mormont_, Daenerys would say, if she knew his thoughts. _And I never want to hear you speak nonsense like that again._

But she was too preoccupied to read his thoughts now. There was no time, as her smile melted away, her breath quickening as she felt the pangs of that next contraction coming, building and cresting so sharply, as the babe would enter this world sooner rather than later, whether it wanted to or not.

“Go, please,” Daenerys begged him. She needn’t beg, as he was in no position to deny her anything. He nodded his assent, kissing the palm of her hand before releasing it, kissing her clammy brow before moving away and allowing the midwife’s assistant to take up his place by her side. 

The girl soon winced on the force of Daenerys’s grip.

This time she couldn’t suppress her cries. Jorah’s heart clenched as he heard her moans follow him out of the bedroom, spilling into the villa’s long, upper hallway…

…where Jeorgianna was standing, in her nightgown, her wide eyes sleepy and her hair askew, listening to her mother’s cries with her hands clasped together nervously. Her expression was forlorn and Jorah could read the questions bouncing around her little head with ease.

_Why is Mama crying? What’s wrong? Who are these strangers in the house?_

“Well, you’re up early, maid,” Jorah told her, keeping his tone light and even. He reached down and gathered her up into his arms with a scooping motion that elicited a little giggle, despite his daughter’s lingering uncertainty and anxiousness. He spoke in dulcet tones, strong and sure, “What a fuss, hmm?”

“Is Mama all right?” Jeorgianna asked, finding her usual perch on his forearm with no trouble, her little hand coming around to hold onto his collar, tiny fingers wrapped in his shirt. She seemed hesitant now, but no longer afraid, as she was in her father’s arms and it was her experience that nothing terrible or unkind happened when she was in his arms. 

“Your Mama’s fine,” Jorah assured her without missing a beat. His voice was steady and certain. He could manage confidence for Jeorgianna easily, _always_, even if he couldn’t manage it for himself. He reminded her, “Do you remember how we told you that your new brother or sister would be here soon?”

“Yes,” Jeorgianna perked up, all her fears quickly being replaced by interest. She’d been hearing about this new brother or sister for months now. Ever since Mama’s belly started to grow. The baby would come _soon_. That’s what Mama and Papa said. But she wasn’t sure she believed them. Soon seemed to be taking forever. 

“How would you like to meet the new baby today?” her father asked. Jeorgianna’s eyes sparkled as she nodded happily. 

“Now?” she hoped, those eyes wide with excitement.

“Soon,” Jorah replied, while reaching a large hand over to brush back a wild lock of silver-blonde hair that was falling into Jeorgianna’s wide eyes. He gently tucked the strands behind her ear, where they stayed. For a few minutes, at least.

Jeorgianna nearly sighed, pouting at the familiar, predictable promise. She side-eyed her father and Jorah laughed at her pout, a deep rumble that resonated in his chest, as he would never be over the fact that she looked _exactly_ like Daenerys when she made that face.

“Come on, let’s get you ready for the day in the meantime, little miss,” he encouraged, as he pressed an affectionate kiss against her rosy cheek. 

He carried the little girl back to her bedroom, setting her down only to peruse the collection of sundresses that Daenerys kept in this room, looking for something for her to wear.

“The blue one,” Jeorgianna suggeted, as if the choice was obvious—even though half the sundresses in her wardrobe were blue, with the other half comprising all the various shades of sunshine-yellow. Like the eye of that daisy which she plucked from the vase beside her bed. 

But apparently he chose the right one, for she clapped when he brought it to her. She scrambled onto the bed and raised her arms above her head. He sat down beside her, on the side of her mattress, while helping her off with the nightgown. Her hair went wild again, as the nightgown peeled away. He scrunched up the summer fabric on the sundress, before lowering it down over her tiny head and slight shoulders. 

“Careful, Papa!” she cautioned. Her little arms came up to meet him, finding the sleeves of her dress, but her flower had come _dangerously_ close to being crushed in the process.

“Oh, sorry, sweetheart,” he replied, sincerely, but with a suppressed smirk hinting at the corners of his mouth. Jeorgianna and her daisies. She collected hundreds of them, in vases all around the house, in tied bouquets on the terrace, in pretty crowns left in her mother’s gardens, but each one was individually precious to her.

And to him. If only because Jeorgianna loved them so.

He held her pretty flower for her as she pulled the sleeves up to her shoulders and smoothed the dress out to her knees, ready for the day. Well, _almost_ ready. Her wrists pushed back that mess of silver-blonde hair, wispy and wild, and falling into her blue eyes again. She scrunched up her tiny nose at the misbehaving hair, but Jorah knew best how to tame it.

He tugged Jeorgianna into his lap, reaching for the tortoise-shell comb that sat near her bedside, with two, white ribbons beside it. He was gentle with the comb, having learned the art of combing out silver-blonde strands with only rough, calloused fingers years ago. 

Jeorgianna remained perched in his lap, liking the familiar brush of the comb. She twirled her flower between her little fingers patiently, only looking up as her father began separating her hair into two, even parts. 

“You can braid my hair?” Jeorgianna wondered, surprised. Her mother and father were interchangeable in most aspects of her life, but her mother’s hands were the ones that braided her hair each morning. Without exception. That had been true for as long as Jeorgianna could remember. 

Which was, admittedly, not that long. 

“Mmhmm, but only if you sit still,” he replied with warmth, using one hand to gently but firmly turn her head forward again. 

It wasn’t so different from braiding cable ropes and ship rigging, really. If the ropes were silky spider webs that escaped his large fingers at the slightest inclination. But Jorah found the work of braiding his daughter’s hair, delicate a task as it was, a welcome distraction. 

Daenerys’s cries were further away here, in Jeorgianna’s bedroom. And Jeorgianna, having been told there was nothing to fear, thought no more of them. But Jorah did—with each renewed cry and heavy groan, each “that’s it, dear, not much longer now,” from Bithia, sending an anxious fear crawling through the pit of his stomach. 

If not for the little girl in his lap, he would be pacing like a bear in a cage. If not for his fingers braiding up the strands of her hair, he was sure they would be shaking and fidgeting like mad. But he set his mind on the task at hand, reminding himself that all would be well.

_All will be well, my love…_

Using one of the white ribbons, he tied off the end of the first braid, before moving to the next. 

Or would have…if Jeorgianna hadn’t reached up one hand, holding her daisy aloft. 

“Please, Papa?” she asked.

“Of course, baby,” he kissed her temple tenderly, before slipping the white, yellow-eyed daisy into her hair just above the same spot. 

As he finished tying up the second braid, Daenerys screamed. On a pain that nearly swallowed her up. She had no choice. Dawn was now firmly upon them, both of the day and the child that would be born with it. The cry was heart-wrenching and impossible to ignore. Jeorgianna rose from her father’s lap, turning and leaning into his shoulder, while silently asking him to assure her, just once more, that her mother was all right.

That _everything_ was all right. 

_Gods, let it be all right… _

His strong arms slid around his daughter, holding her tight, silently giving her the assurances she needed. In his arms, Jeorgianna smiled deeply, dimples showing, despite the dangers that he couldn’t hide from her intelligent, little mind—not completely. But she trusted her father. 

If he said there was nothing to fear, she was satisfied.

Jorah absently pressed another kiss to Jeorgianna’s head as they waited, with baited breath, reminding himself that Jeorgianna’s presence in his arms, her very existence, proved the darker thoughts in his head to be nothing but lies.

_Please… _

“Yes, Daenerys, that’s it! Steady…” Bithia’s voice drifted down from the far bedchamber.

And soon finally became _now_…

A cry echoed through the villa, all the way from the tiles of the low-pitched roof to the planks of the red door. But it wasn’t Daenerys who cried out this time. These cries—no _squalls_ more like—were too high-pitched and too new to the world. 

A newborn’s cry broke the dawn, clearing the skies with it. 

The eaves dripped steadily as the rain slowed to a mist and the sun finally burst through the morning’s cloud cover. As the villa lit up with sunlight, Jorah and Jeorgianna shared a hopeful glance at the strange, wonderful sound ringing in their ears. 

A sound that continued to ring, loudly.

And loud enough that Jeorgianna slowly put her tiny hands over her tiny ears, as if to say “what’s all this racket?” in a gruff manner reminiscent of her Mormont grandfather or her great-aunt Maege, though she wouldn’t know it. But the gesture lifted the tension from the house and from Jorah’s heart. He chuckled, hugging his daughter close.

“Ser Jorah?” Bithia’s assistant found him quickly, appearing in the arched doorway with a satisfied look gracing her shining features. At the young woman’s voice, Jorah looked up from Jeorgianna. Jeorgianna remained curled in his arms, shyly hiding her gaze from the stranger, until curiosity got the better of her. 

One blue eye dared to peek out from the safety of her father’s embrace.

“Is Daenerys…?” Jorah kept his voice level, for Jeorgianna’s sake. The young midwife’s expression spoke volumes, and all with happy tidings, but Jorah was never one to assume the sweetness of life was his to claim. 

Not even as his second child’s first cries registered in his ears, or his firstborn grinned prettily while nuzzling close against his shoulder.

“She’s well, my lord,” the young midwife nodded brightly, always one for happy endings. The danger had passed and the morning greeted them all with joy. She beamed at him, while relaying the news, “And you have a son.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for MormontofRivia - who asked for an extend-a-scene of the last chapter weeks ago. Here, darling. Have some fluff <3
> 
> Plus a gorgeous, beautiful, lovely, amazing salzrand illustration _of_ said fluff which is reaching dangerous levels of SOFFFFFFFFT. Had to get my fainting couch out for this one because I died like 50 times in the span of 5 minutes lol. #RIPME <3 <3 <3

_You have a son…_

The unlikely words settled in Jorah’s ears with that same, _utter_ disbelief that had followed another dawn and another midwife’s proclamation, not all that long ago. The woman had gently nudged him out of his desperate, whispered prayers at Daenerys’s bedside, reaching over a steady hand to squeeze his tense shoulder once and say, firmly,

_You have a daughter, Ser._

Yes, he had a daughter. 

That much he knew. He could never deny Jeorgianna’s existence. Not while she clung to him so tightly. Like a bear cub balanced in his arms, sitting up on her usual perch, with her tiny fingers twisted in the front of his shirt. 

The feel of her hand bunching up that fabric and lightly pinching his skin beneath was real enough. Her little weight on his arm, scarcely more than a bag of beets, was real too. And her sweet little voice, asking, with just a tad exasperation, “Can we meet the baby _now_, Papa?” was no phantom thing. 

If he didn’t yet believe the other truth, he was forced to believe _this_ one, at the very least, as he carried his daughter the short distance down the villa’s upper hallway to her mother…to welcome her baby brother into the world.

To meet his second child. 

His _son_. 

After everything that happened with Lynesse, Jorah never expected to be a father. Not in a million years. That time had passed and that blessing would never be his to claim. He’d resigned himself to the idea a long time ago, knowing that there was no great tragedy in it, as he didn’t deserve to be a father. 

Now he was one, _twice_ over. How had that happened? How had he been given so much when he deserved so little?

The answer—the beautiful, brave and perfect answer—was sitting up in their bed, her silver-blonde hair still pulled to that one side, her arms cradling a wriggling cloth bundle, out of which an infant’s hand stretched out towards her weary but contented features, landing on her chin and grinning mouth. 

As Jorah and Jeorgianna entered the bedroom, Bithia was gathering up her things and taking her leave, stopping only to pat the man’s elbow on her way by, with a predictable suggestion, “Go meet your son, Ser. But then get some rest. All of you.”

Rest would wait. And Jorah barely registered Bithia’s words anyway, too fixated by the simple but no-less-miraculous sight that greeted him as he crossed that threshold. His wife and his newborn son—both alive, both healthy. His heart soared as he watched Daenerys catch the baby’s wandering fist, murmuring sweet, secret words to her child, as she pressed a soft kiss against his tiny fingers. 

He was too struck by the sight of her and found his steps slow to a halt under the archway, words abandoning him, waiting for her to look up. Which she did, within mere seconds, hearing his familiar footfall and knowing he’d join her as soon as he heard the baby’s first cries. 

_Nothing_ could keep Jorah away from her at times like this.

Jorah watched Daenerys bite at her bottom lip softly, overwhelmed by a grand splash of emotions, rushing over her features like a high waterfall crashing into the sea. Her gaze locked with his for a long minute, drifting over to Jeorgianna and back again with such softness, the luster of tears painting her violet eyes in their deepest, prettiest shades.

He could guess her thoughts, as they were his own, echoing in his head and hammering in his chest: _My family, my love, my dear ones…_

The words she traded with Jorah in that minute were silent things, unspoken, but exchanged in a held look and a shared grin that neither would be able to keep back, even if they wanted too.

And why would they ever want to keep it back?

_I love you. I’ll always love you… _

She shifted the baby, freeing up one hand so she could brush at those tears spilling from beneath her already damp eyelashes. They were all happy tears now but still, this wasn’t a time for tears. She beckoned them over, recovering quickly and speaking gently to her other baby, “Do you want to meet your little brother, Jeorgianna?”

“Oh, yes,” Jeorgianna nodded to both her mother and then her father, with wide eyes and an eager excitement, many months in the making. 

Jorah brought Jeorgianna closer, shifting her weight in his arms as he sank down on the side of the mattress, beside Daenerys. Jeorgianna was a mix of minor hesitation and overflowing curiosity, standing up on her father’s thigh, then crossing his lap and using his forearm as a brace to gently and carefully peer into the swaddled bundle in her mother’s arms. 

Daenerys had moved the baby to the crook of one arm. With her free hand, she adjusted the blanket around his tiny face and then looked over at her daughter, to watch her reaction. But that’s when Daenerys noticed Jeorgianna’s braids and suddenly, a little amusement crept into her already full expression, likely imagining Jorah’s large fingers at work, braiding their daughter’s wispy hair. 

She reached forward to run her fingers over the ends of those silky strands, touching the petals of that milk-white daisy above Jeorgianna’s temple with care, a tug of a smile hinting at her lips. 

“Who braided your hair?” she asked the little girl, with put-upon surprise, but her eyes were rising and meeting Jorah’s again, overflowing and brimming with…_everything_. The mix of emotions in her gaze matched his exactly, as love filled that bedchamber to its rafters.

_We made her, you and I._

_We made this one too…_

“Papa did,” Jeorgianna confirmed, already used to the idea of her father being able to braid her hair, even if the idea had seemed impossible to her, little more than an hour ago. She gripped the ridged muscles on Jorah’s arm a little tighter, as she leaned further towards the baby. 

He’d been wriggling and stretching when they came in, but he seemed calmer now, settled in Daenerys’s arms, staring up at his big sister with blue, blue eyes, so much like her own. 

Like their father. 

“You look lovely, sweetheart,” Daenerys mused.

“As do you, _Khaleesi_,” Jorah finally found some words, his voice hoarse on all those emotions that were too poignant to express. But she knew the contents of his heart. Daenerys always knew. Her hand drifted away from their daughter’s hair to seek out his hand, the one not holding Jeorgianna, where they interlaced their fingers briefly, holding on, keeping quiet company, his thumb running over her knuckles once, twice… 

Until the baby sneezed, adorably, bringing their attention back to him, where it belonged. No more than an hour old, the child seemed more than satisfied when all faces turned back to him. Fully awake, the baby showed no signs of drowsiness, blinking in the morning light, terribly curious. 

Jorah asked her, “Have you settled on a name?”

Before Daenerys had a chance to speak up, Jeorgianna murmured, “Little bear,” while reaching out to carefully stroke her brother’s head, mimicking what she’d seen her mother do. Daenerys and Jorah both chuckled on the name, and Jorah’s grip on his little girl’s waist increased just slightly, as he pulled her back from the baby to press a kiss against the top of her head.

“Aemon?” Daenerys answered Jorah’s question, running her fingertips against the smooth, newborn skin of Aemon’s little chest. They’d discussed many names in the last few weeks, in a hopeful way they never would have dared with Jeorgianna—too afraid that speaking openly of joy might give the gods an excuse to steal it away. 

He knew she’d been leaning towards her great-uncle’s name if it was a boy.

_A boy. Our son._

“Aemon,” Jorah agreed, trying it out and liking the sound. 

But honestly, he would have agreed to anything she chose. He deserved none of this. But she deserved _everything_. The baby stirred at his father’s voice, eyes jumping from one face to the other, seeking out the familiar sound. Aemon knew his father’s voice well and loved it already, having heard its low, raspy tones daily for months now.

“I like Aemon,” Jeorgianna added her own approval, if a bit conditionally. She sat back in Jorah’s lap for a beat, leaning against his chest and tipping her head up to look at her father squarely. She clarified her answer, “But I like ‘little bear’ too.”

“Aye, maid. So do I,” Jorah assured her, that chuckle rumbling in his chest again. 

Daenerys nodded as well, cooing, “He _is_ a little bear, isn’t he?” down at the child in her arms.

“Mmhmm,” Jeorgianna murmured, glad to have her parents agree with something that was obvious. 

She was soon crawling back across Jorah’s lap to take a second look at the baby. Sensing his sister’s movement, Aemon’s blue eyes flickered to the little girl, hand stretched out. Jeorgianna took it immediately, with a little smile gracing her lips, saying simply, with a child’s pure honesty, “I love you, little bear.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So salzrand nuked my inbox with this little fluff bomb a couple days ago, and now I must nuke your inboxes with the scene that goes with it. That's just how this works ;)
> 
> #BEACHFLUFF #SUMMERFLUFF #FLUFFFFFFFFFFFFFF

“Papa, come swing me?” Daenielle had run up the backshore, with all its white-gold sands and warm, dry swaths, leaving Jeorgianna and Aemon further down by the surf, where the children had been playing for some time. 

The little girl was now standing over Jorah and Daenerys, who lounged on the sand together, lying on a large blanket that Daenerys had brought down from the house, lightly nuzzling and speaking in calm, quiet tones as they watched their children play.

Daenielle added a pleasant, little, “Please?” and a sweet smile that could sway a king to give her half his fortune.

Daenerys was cozy in her husband’s arms, having almost dozed off in the afternoon sunlight more than once, but she smirked at Daenielle’s request, knowing he would leave her soon enough. And she used a simple brush of her forehead against his jawline to tell him to go on. 

She didn’t much like sharing Jorah…except with their children.

The little girl’s smile went _very_ wide, as she saw her father rise up, leaving Daenerys with a gentle kiss before taking Daenielle’s tiny hand and following her down the beach just a little ways, where there was plenty of room to swing her around.

She giggled with anticipation as he hooked his large hands under her small arms and those giggles turned into happy squeals of delight as he swung her around and around, as if she weighed no more than a bag of feathers. Which was nearly true. 

Their youngest was still so little.

“You’ll make her dizzy, Jorah,” Daenerys cautioned, but half-heartedly, curled on her side, propped up on one arm. 

“I’m fine, Mama!” Daenielle was quick to mention, between peals of laughter.

“See? She’s fine,” Jorah added with his own deeper laugh, a rumbling that complemented Daenielle’s well, as he liked how wide that smile on her little face had become.

“You’ll make _yourself_ dizzy then,” Daenerys grinned slyly, while knowing he wouldn’t care in the least. She watched them—her tall, broad husband and that slip of a girl in his hands, lit up by sunshine, with the endless sea crashing against the shore behind them. 

It was a sight she’d seen before. And one she never tired of.

Jorah spun his youngest daughter around a dozen times, up and down, skirting the soft sands and blue skies both. Her crystalline laughter echoed up and down the beach, skipping across the rush of water, as the waves continuously spilled out over sand.

When he finally set her back down again, Daenielle clapped her hands together, and spun around once more for good measure. She was steady and had no trouble finding her footing.

The same couldn’t be said for Jorah, and Daenerys’s smile took on an “I-told-you-so” sort of undercurrent, as she watched the impossibly strong and battle-tested warrior waver on his feet… 

…before toppling a little-less-than-gracefully onto soft, white-gold sand.

“Papa’s down!” Aemon was sharp-eyed at the best of times, and caught sight of his father’s fall from down near the tide’s lower reach, alerting both his sisters to the fact, almost as a call to action. 

The cubs moved fast, knowing this was an opportunity _not_ to be wasted. Their father was strong enough that he could usually repel and resist a true cuddle attack, even from all three of them at once. While he was standing, at least, it was impossible to bring him down. 

But this time, he was on the ground before they reached him. 

“Ooof!” Jorah could manage little by way of defense as both Jeorgianna and Aemon had rushed up from the water’s edge, their bare feet slapping the wet beach and softer sands beyond the berm. They were soon on top of him, Jeorgianna hugging his chest and Aemon going for his legs, keeping their father pinned, and laughing merrily while doing it. Jorah could do little to stop what was happening, musing, “All of you? Really?”

“We’ve got you, Papa,” Daenielle took the easier task of breaking down any contemplated resistance, by ringing her little arms around his thick neck and pressing tiny little kisses against her father’s bearded cheek.

“A little help, Daenerys?” Jorah asked, through new laughter brought on by hands that knew his more ticklish spots. Oh, but he knew theirs too, and had a longer reach. Jeorgianna shrieked, dodging her father’s grasp nimbly, but Aemon was more unlucky, as Jorah found his side and reduced the little bear into a fit of giggles.

“Sorry, love,” Daenerys chuckled at Jorah’s predicament and felt absolutely no sympathy, whatsoever. He could complain and grumble all he wanted—_miserable old bear_, she thought affectionately—but she knew he _loved_ it. She assured him, “I’m good where I am.”

And she was, content to watch and let her heart warm at the pleasing sight of all her little bear cubs piled on their father. Her _family_. It warmed her more than the balmy breezes currently lifting off the Jade Sea or that temperate sunlight, casting a brilliant sheen to the red, gold and silver strands of their wind-blown hair. 

“Daenielle?” Jorah asked, in a voice slightly strained from her little chokehold. He’d regained enough balance to move to a sitting position, but the littlest one was still hanging off his neck and the other two weren’t subdued quite yet, still squirming away from his grasp too easily.

“Yes, Papa?” Daenielle wondered pleasantly, all the while keeping her grip steady.

Jorah’s eyes sparked with mischief and Daenerys found her eyes widening a little from the safety of her spot on the beach blanket. She expected to escape this bear cub attack, untackled and untickled, but… 

Jorah moved his head just a tad to plant a kiss at Daenielle’s temple, even as he gently pinned Aemon beneath his leg and Jeorgianna under his forearm at the same time. 

“Don’t you think your mother looks lonely over there, all by herself?” he suggested, a little too innocently. Daenielle looked over and smiled at Daenerys. She nodded, sliding her arms off Jorah’s neck immediately and crawling down his broad back, her little feet finding sand once more. He added, “Aemon? Jeorgianna?” 

“Yes?”

“Yeah?”

“Go show your mother you love her,” Jorah told them, in a voice fashioned for commanding legions.

“Oh, no you don’t…,” Daenerys was already scrabbling to her feet, knowing too well how this would end. But the other two heard her—and sensed another opportunity not to be wasted. Jorah smirked as he let his captives go. The children were off running within seconds. 

And very soon it was Daenerys who was buried under her three cubs, covered in bear kisses, smothered in bear hugs, and overcome by fits of laughter.


End file.
